


I Keep Telling Myself

by jjommarie



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen, M/M, Teen Angst, idk this is just me venting but its not that bad i promise, the fic isnt centered around it its just kind of in the background, the joetrick could be read as platonic, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjommarie/pseuds/jjommarie
Summary: Patrick freaks out about swim class, Joe helps him.





	I Keep Telling Myself

**Author's Note:**

> so this is just my teen angst about dumb stuff and it isn't really hiding behind any metaphors so. eh.  
> also it's my first actual fic and i don't usually write in third person.  
> also i don't know how to title stuff for shit

 

It’s not that Patrick hates exercise, it really isn’t. He knows that it’s what everyone’s thinking, but it’s just not true. It isn’t _his_ fault that every time he even thinks about getting in the water and wearing a swimsuit and changing in front of all the other guys he feels that deep pit of anxiety in his gut. Even now, fully dressed and looking over the pool, he feels butterflies and worms crawling around in his stomach. Staring with wide eyes through the window, he can see the entirety of the grimy pool in all its horrible glory.

Next to him, Pete looks at the same sight with bright eyes, hands and nose pressed up against the glass. When he glances over at Patrick there’s a wide grin on his face, but Patrick can only manage to send a tight smile back.

It was Pete who wanted to come here in the first place. When the gym teacher told the class that they were starting swimming next week, he had been ecstatic. For the rest of the week he went on and on about how awesome it was going to be while Patrick felt like he was having heart palpitations. By the end of the day on Friday, Pete had decided to go check out the pool himself, just to ‘scope it out’ properly. Naturally, that meant dragging Patrick and Joe along with him too. So, thanks to Pete, Patrick is staring the room he’s been dreading all week in the face. Great.

Finally sick of torturing himself, he breaks his staring contest with the pool to look over at Joe. Instead of gawking dumbly at the hellscape like Pete, though, Joe’s looking at Patrick. His wide blues eyes watch him carefully. It’s only a few seconds but Patrick can feel a patch of heat growing over the back of his neck. He glances down at his shoes.

“Hey, man, you good?” Joe asks in that stupidly soft voice of his and Patrick is kind of only now just realizing how hard his hands are shaking.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just nerves. Ha,” there’s nothing but panic behind the last laugh and he knows Joe can hear it.

Patrick’s aware of how dramatic he’s being - thanks - but he just can’t help it. Thousands of nightmare scenarios flood his mind whenever the thought of swimming comes up and it’s just becoming too much. He’s tried everything - every escape he could think of. His friends were kind of in the same boat, his parents didn’t really understand his fears and kept telling him that everyone has to do it (which is _so_ helpful), and he even went to the counselors office to ask if there was any possible way to bypass the class, but nobody had an answer for him. Like it or not, they all said, he was in swimming class. Which is fine, really, because millions of other kids have taken a swimming class and they all survived and Patrick knows that he’s going to be fine, but no amount of reasoning can match the tidal waves of anxiety he feels everyday. Not even the way Joe’s looking at him now, like all he wants to do is help.

This time, when Patrick looks back at Joe, it’s with a slightly more wobbly expression. Joe’s eyes instantly go soft and for a second it feels like _finally_ someone understands. But then Pete jumps between them, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders and the moment is lost. Joe’s eyes fall to his shoes.

“C’mon, lovebirds, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

\---

The next time Patrick is forced to face his fears head on is at Target. Specifically, the swimming section of Target with his mother and Joe, shopping for swim-trunks. Saying that he’s freaking the fuck out is an understatement.

Patrick is about to shit his own brains out.

After about ten minutes of wandering around the kids section with a completely blank look on his face, Patrick is approached by Joe. Somewhere a few isles away, his mom is humming along with the music on the intercom.

“Have you found anything yet?” Joe asks, innocently enough. No, Patrick thinks, he has not found anything yet, and he is resolutely not going to find anything for as long as he possibly can. But it would be kind of rude to say that, so he just shrugs in response. Joe looks unimpressed, but doesn’t say anything more.

Then, for a few seconds after that they just kind of… stare at each other. It’s weird. Joe’s eyes are unreadable and Patrick suddenly feels like he’s been backed into a corner, but then Joe is ushering Patrick over to this rack of kid’s suits he found that are exclusively Fortnite themed and his mom is showing him this shirt that’s totally ugly and Patrick forgets about it.

 

Half an hour and more than a few passive-aggressive exchanges with his mother later, they’re all ready to check out.

As his mother loads the instruments of torture (or, as other people like to call them: swimsuits) onto the conveyor belt along with the eight tons of other bullshit she had to get, Joe leads Patrick away, his hand a steady weight on Patrick’s shoulder. He doesn’t take it away until they’re both leaning against a wall next to the exit. Joe looks at him expectantly, but Patrick’s not sure what to say.

Earlier, when he was trying various swimsuits on, he was kind of totally freaking the hell out. But when he came out of the changing room, t-shirt still on and wobbling knees fully displayed, Joe had given him a dopey smile and complimented him. Again, in another suit and shakes to match, Joe had given him a sympathetic look and cracked a few light-hearted jokes, easing Patrick. His eyes, though, were sad. Sad like they are now as he looks down at Patrick.

“I’m fine Joe,” Patrick insists, “I was just getting pissy at my mom.” Honestly all Patrick really wants now is to go home and forget about all this, he doesn’t have the energy to pick a fight with Joe. But, once again, Joe is hesitant to accept his answer. He gives Patrick this soft look and the warmth Patrick can feel radiating off of him is almost enough to make him throw himself at Joe and sob all his problems away, it really is. He stares a hole into Joe’s chest and pumps himself up to just spill it all.

Just as he opens his mouth to give in, his mom strolls over to them and the door opens, sending a gust of cold air right between him and Joe. His opportunity is gone. So, he recovers, standing up straight and walking over to his mom to grab some bags out of her hands before walking to her car without looking back.

On the ride back, he doesn’t look at Joe at all.

\---

 _In 36 hours_ , Patrick thinks, _I’ll be in gym class._ _In less than a day and a half, I’ll be in a swimsuit, surrounded by two dozen other kids, and soaking wet. This time in one day and eleven hours and however many minutes I’ll be-_

“Stop thinking so loud,” Joe says from the other side of the bed, rolling over to face Patrick, who can only look over at him helplessly. Joe blinks long and slow at him before shuffling closer. Almost automatically, Patrick does the same until they’re almost nose to nose.

“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles, looking down at his legs before kicking one out between Joe’s. There’s a few beats of silence - the heater humming quietly downstairs - before a hand lands on his arm, firm and warm. Patrick meets those blue eyes once more.

Joe doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t really have to.

Ten more beats of quiet fall over them. Patrick can’t take it any longer.

“I can’t do swimming,” he finally admits, even though he’s been saying it in every other way possible for days now, “I just- I can’t.”

Joe’s quiet for a moment, soft around the edges with his expression dancing on pity, and Patrick totally just wants to melt into him and forget that he even said anything at all. Before he can, though, Joe answers him, “I don’t know what to tell you that you haven’t already been told, Patrick. All the advice I can give is bullshit because nothing I can do will help you. But I’m here for you, really.”

And Patrick really doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not fair of him to dump all of his angst on his friends, he knows, but it’s just so _frustrating_ . He feels like no one can hear him crying out for help, that no one cares when he feels like puking from the nerves, but he knows it’s not true. It’s _hard_ not to hate himself and it’s _hard_ not to feel so insecure. He wishes there was another way, but there isn’t. He’s got to accept that.

“It’s fine,” he says, voice strung a half a note high, “I don’t expect you to know what to do, I’m just having trouble processing it, I think.”   
“That’s completely fine, man. Feel free to dump all your shit on me for the next six weeks if you need to, dude, I can take it. Promise,” Joe says, scooting even closer to Patrick, making his nose push against Patrick’s.

“Pinky promise?” Patrick asks coyly, all his thoughts of a horrible death by drowning already slipping away as he holds out his small finger for Joe.

“Totally,” Joe answers as he links their little fingers, sending him a dopey grin with it, and this time, Patrick’s able to send one right back.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! kudos and comments appreciated <3


End file.
